The Nicest Thing
by turntechstar
Summary: Winter isn't as bad as Dave makes it out to be.


Your name is Dave Strider and you are eighteen years old. You live in the city, where the weather is cold and the people are colder. It's currently winter—a season you hate with every fiber of your being. The streets are still bustling, people silently drudging along on the slippery cement as they go on to do whatever it is they do.

None of that matters, though. You're not even in the city.

At least not anymore.

You're currently on a bus, the roads winding behind you and the buildings getting progressively smaller. You ignore the faint smell of alcohol from the asshat passed out beside you and turn your head to the window. It's snowing again.

You hate snow.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are seven years old. Your brother dressed you today with your thick red scarf, earmuffs, winter boots, mittens and the ironic cat sweater pulled out just for this occasion. You jingle as you waddle down the street, backpack slipping off your shoulder. You're stopped by a small blue gloved hand, and you turn around. A goofy grin is shot your way, and you crack a smile of your own. Hand in hand you both walk down the sidewalk, watching and laughing as the puffs of air you breathe swirl together and disappear before your eyes.

You've found yourself walking down that same paved sidewalk, hands shoved into your pockets and scarf covering half of your face. You've outgrown the not-so-ironic-anymore sweater and cheesy winter wear, but it doesn't mean you've grown accustomed to the weather. Or that you loathe it any less. Crows shout at you from the rooftops and rustle in the trees, but you don't bother lifting up your head. You've got somewhere to be.

"Jesus would freeze his prehistoric motherfucking ass out here, throw a goddamn Yule log in the fireplace," you mutter, your teeth chattering as you bundle yourself up in your friend's bed sheets, your foot sticking out just far enough to nudge his back and edge him off the bed. He huffs, his shoulders slumped as he moves off of the mattress and stretches his arms. You peek through the sheets as you watch him move closer. You're grabbed by the ankles and with a swift tug you're on the floor, shades crooked but still in their rightful place, and John laughs. At you, or with you, you're not really sure, but you don't care. Not a lot at least. It takes him a while to finally settle down, tears glistening in his eyes as he wheezes, and you promptly run your hands through your hair to comb the tangled mess.

"You should've seen your face, pftahaha!" He says as he smiles and wipes his face, and all of a sudden there's a warm feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are fifteen years old, and not quite sure how to feel.

The snow hasn't let up and it doesn't look like it's planning on doing so. Your body is scorching hot, so the cold hasn't phased you completely yet. You rub your hands together anyway, nervously, chewing at the insides of your mouth as you turn the corner.

Maybe you could still stop at the nearest bus stop and head right back from where you came.

Maybe you could text John and tell him you couldn't make it because you were busy. Or sick. Or you know, too scared to show your ugly mug.

Maybe you could.

That is, you could've. But he's already spotted you, his hand waving frantically for you to rush over. You stop at the other side of the street, glancing over at the bus stop, and then back over to the park where John is standing.

You wait for the walk signal, and cross the street, the word "fuck" reverberating in your mind.

You're currently standing outside your best friend's window in the middle of June. He doesn't see you as he walks by, and you feel as if your feet have glued themselves to the ground.

EB: are you there?

EB: dave?

EB: hellooo?

TG: yeah im here

EB: we really need to talk about this!

TG: no we don't

EB: yes! i'm not going to just let you ignore this

TG: theres nothing to fucking talk about

TG: I dont know what youre even going on about

TG: must have watched to many B movies this week dude youre making shit up again egbert

EB: dave really

TG: oh woops i have to go

TG: you know and do

TG: shit

- turntechGodhead [TG] has ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] –

You tug at your shirt, your face uncomfortably hot as you finally force yourself to move. You move one foot in front of the other; now you're on John's porch. Your hand makes it way to the doorbell, and it's pressed and now you're running down the sidewalk as fast as you can. You're laughing. You don't know why, you're just laughing and laughing and you can't stop. That is, until you start feeling sick.

Your name is Dave Strider, you are seventeen years old and you've just puked macaroni and cheese over a bus stop bench.

"It took you long enough!"

You don't dare to glance up, but you offer a slight nod as you move closer.

He's sitting on a swing that's much to big for him and his long stocky legs. You consider sitting down on the swing beside him, but opt for standing a handful of feet away, right in front of him.

You glance around, but you can feel his stare grilling you right in the side of your head. 'Fuck'.

He doesn't say anything.

You're kicking at the snow on the ground that you know is already seeping through your boots. Your throat is burning. You want to speak but everything is jumbling up and fighting and screaming and stumbling to get out and the words just won't.

You open your mouth.

"Look, dude, I-I just, I—fuck not this f-fucking stutter shit," you drag your hand down your face in aggravation and your teeth are chattering again. "I'm sorry. I-I don't know what you want me to s-say. Or why the f-fuck you wanted to s-s-see me."

You're shaking. Your hands are gripping at your jacket inside of your pockets, and the snow is still falling and clutching onto your hair and scarf.

"I wish—I wish y-you didn't know me so f-fucking well, y'know? I-I wish you could've just sat there w-with that goddamn look on your face, and y-you could've just smiled like y-you always did."

John is still quiet, fiddling with his thumbs. It almost makes you want to laugh.

"You're—You're nice. Y-You're the nicest motherfucking t-thing and I-I w-wish I wasn't t-the only one s-sitting at home at night, t-thinking about t-this s-s-shit. I w-wish I could eat w-without getting sick—I, fuck."

Your hands are up covering your face now, your fingernails digging into your cheeks.

"This i-is stupid! Stupid, fucking stupid, dumb."

The swing creaks, and you're brought into a hug. It's warm, and your body slumps against the feeling.

You're still scared. You've been scared for years, and things aren't okay. But they could be.

_No, __things __would __be __okay,_ you assure yourself as you both walk down the same sidewalk, idly making comments back and forth, laughing as the puffs of air you breathe swirl together and disappear before your eyes just like old times.

* * *

><p>hi turntechstar here ;hsdfa this is my first fic so i'm apologizing for the horrible thing you've just read<p>

yep i'm sorry


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